


best regards

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Identity Issues, M/M, Madeleine Era, Sickfic, well mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Javert falls ill after being stuck in the freezing Montreuil rain, Valjean takes him in to warm him up, despite his reservations. While apprehensive about having Javert in his home for fear he might discover Valjean's identity, he finds it is hard to hold himself back from seeing Javert so vulnerable and humanized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	best regards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [visiblemarket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/gifts).



> Written for the Valvert Gift Exchange, Round 1. 
> 
> Title comes from some shitty No Use for a Name song that has the lyric "so easy to confuse another lie that's true" that I kind of wanted to use for a title, but it sounded stupid when I typed it out.

As any citizen of Montreuil-sur-Mer who decided to walk the streets long after the sun had set would know, the last person to leave the factory would often be the owner itself, M. Madeleine. The townsfolk whispered about his penchant to leave late and arrive early, which fueled their rumours about his home -- the home that not another soul in Montreuil claimed to have seen inside of. The whispers were largely harmless -- lately, the popular theory was that Madeleine lived and slept in the Mairie.

Jean Valjean was aware of the rumors, though he was too concerned about the state of the factory to let them keep him from his work. Occasionally he would worry that the mystery would lead one of the townspeople to dig into his past and discover that his name was not actually Madeleine, but that he was a convict that had broken parole almost eight years ago -- but, though the rumors were pervasive, they were generally not meant with any malignance. Madeleine was well-liked in the town, for which Valjean was thankful; he had helped the town prosper, and was rewarded with his privacy. If anybody had serious doubts about Madeleine, they were too happy with what he had done for the town to try to do anything.

Of course, there was the sole exception to that rule, and while Valjean was working on locking the gate outside the factory one night, an arm thrown over his face to protect against the freezing rain that battered the town, he heard the unmistakable sound of that exception running quickly toward him and then -- to Valjean’s relief -- behind him.

And it was, unmistakably, Inspector Javert -- the long stride, clicking sound of his heels as they hit the ground and laboured breathing told Valjean as much. He had learned to listen for Javert’s footsteps, in hopes he might recognize them if Javert ever found something on Madeleine or if he thought he might act on the suspicions Valjean knew he had.

The footsteps stopped, however, and when Valjean turned around, it was to see Javert bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He was soaked-through; Valjean was far from dry himself, but thought Javert could not have looked more wet if he were to dive off one of the docks. Valjean squeezed his eyes shut as genuine concern and reasonable apprehension battled in his mind, but eventually -- though not without a knot in his stomach -- made his way over to where Javert was standing.

Javert must have heard him coming, for he rose quickly to his feet and inclined his head at Valjean with a perfunctory, “good evening, Monsieur le Maire.”

“And to you, Inspector,” Valjean returned. He looked around them before giving Javert a concerned look. “Has something happened?”

Still trying to calm his breathing, Javert nodded; the gesture seemed oddly informal for him, but, Valjean figured, it was late, he was clearly exhausted, and thoroughly drenched.

“There was a brawl at one of the inns,” Javert explained between laboured breaths, “one of the men had injured another and damaged a lot of the inn. I intended to apprehend him.”

“I see.” Valjean was cold himself, and fighting for control with his voice; he could never be fully at ease around Javert, but, thankfully, Javert seemed too out of sorts to notice anything. Valjean nodded toward a street lamp near the fence to the factory, were a dry patch of sidewalk was barely visible. “Join me,” he offered.

Javert obliged, though slowly; he was not quite staggering, but it was far from his typical gait. Javert did not hesitate to press his back against the wall behind him, his breathing having not quite returned to normal.

“How long have you been in the rain?” Valjean inquired.

“Perhaps an hour.”

Valjean stared at him, and, forgetting himself, exclaimed, “are you mad?”

Javert didn’t respond. Valjean looked at him more closely under the light of the street lamp. His face had a pale and gaunt quality to it Valjean had never seen before, and he was shaking more than could normally have been justified on such a night.

“Are you ill?” Valjean asked.

“I am fine,” Javert responded somewhat petulantly, and he moved to stand up. He was unsteady on his feet, even with the wall behind him, and it seemed to Valjean that Javert could hardly keep his head upright. Valjean pressed the back of his hand to the side of Javert’s face; it was colder to the touch than he had expected, even in this rain.

“You are not,” he then insisted. He closed his eyes again, bracing himself. “My home is not far from here; you need to get warm.”

“Monsieur le Maire, I assure you-”

“I won’t hear any objections,” Valjean told him. “You’ll be worse in that greatcoat, it’s soaked; I will lend you mine for the walk.”

“Surely not,” Javert replied, but a moment later, he moved his hands up to the top button. He struggled with it, and Valjean watched his fingers fumble gracelessly with the coat. Eventually he sighed and moved Javert’s hands carefully out of the way, unbuttoning the coat the rest of the way himself. Valjean pulled off his own coat which was still, thankfully, dry on the inside, and handed it to Javert, who wore it without complaint.

“I’m about ten minutes from here,” Valjean told him, “will you be able to walk?”

Javert nodded again, and again Valjean was struck by the gesture. Where before it had seemed informal, it now seemed vulnerable; he had expected more of a protest from Javert, and it worried Valjean that none came.

They made their way as quickly through the rain as Valjean dared, as Javert was noticeably unsteady on his feet. With Javert’s greatcoat slung over his arm and otherwise in only his shirtsleeves, Valjean was quickly soaked through. He took a moment to worry about whether or not the now translucent white fabric might expose the deep scars around Valjean’s wrists, but Javert seemed barely able to focus on his own feet, let alone Valjean’s skin.

They walked in silence, and it dawned on Valjean how dangerous his current actions were. He was bringing Javert into his home, he was letting the one man who might be able to discover who Madeleine had been -- who Valjean _was_ \-- into his own private space. In the silence, his apprehension only grew, until Valjean was unsure whether the rain or Javert was causing him to shiver.

But what else could he do? He could hardly leave Javert in the rain, out of sorts and nearly unable to walk, on a day as cold as this; he did not trust Javert would even be able to make it back to his own lodgings. But had Javert not left Valjean in equally bad circumstances? Though it was typically warmer in Toulon than it was in Montreuil, the feeling of being perpetually soaked was not much more pleasant. The guards had never had any sympathy for Valjean or the others around him, had never shown anything approaching concern for his or anyone else’s well-being. Were he to leave Javert here, it would not be undeserved.

But it would not be right, either, and Valjean knew he could no more keep Javert in danger than he could change the way Javert had treated him in Toulon. It was not Javert's _fault_ he was suspicious of Madeleine -- he was, after all, correct -- and would it not be wrong to endanger him out of the narcissistic desire for self-preservation? Javert was younger than him, and though most of the town -- Valjean included -- found him decidedly unpleasant, he was generally a force for good in Montreuil. If his life was at risk out in the rain, it was certainly worth more than Valjean’s freedom -- should it come to that.

Javert was silent throughout the walk; his eyes seemed to be fixed permanently on his feet, as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. It hardly seemed like the same Javert Valjean had known in Toulon. Still, Valjean could not dispel the worry that coursed through his body; Javert was still a sharp, observant person, and any slip on Valjean’s behalf while Javert was in his care would send him straight back to the bagne.

With that thought, Valjean pushed open the door to his home and ushered Javert in; he seemed even worse now, and Valjean was worried he might fall to his feet at any moment. Without even pausing at the door, Valjean carefully grabbed Javert’s arm, guiding him toward the staircase.

“Do you think you will be able to manage the stairs?” he asked, and Javert didn’t respond, nor did he flinch at Valjean’s arm; this worried Valjean even more as they slowly climbed the staircase.

Valjean kept his hand on Javert’s arm as they ascended. It still seemed odd, touching Javert tenderly, almost worryingly, when Javert had never extended that same kindness to Valjean or Madeleine. He had only touched Valjean in Toulon in discipline, and on the rare occasion Javert would shake Madeleine’s hand, it had always seemed to Valjean like a challenge, as though the handshake itself might reveal to Javert Madeleine’s true identity.

Eventually they reached the top of the stairs, and Valjean, without a better plan, led Javert into his bedchamber.

“You need to dry off,” Valjean started, awkwardly, “I think it might be advisable for you to -- I will give you the room while you change, of course.”

He didn’t turn to see Javert respond, but instead began searching through his wardrobe for something that might accommodate Javert’s larger frame; he eventually found a pair of trousers that had always been slightly too long for Valjean, and one of his larger shirts. When he turned around to hand them to Javert, he found Javert still standing stock still in his bedroom, quietly dripping water onto Valjean’s floor.

“Are you able to undo the buttons?” Valjean asked, and Javert shook his head slightly. Valjean grabbed a towel and made his way over to Javert, pulling his own coat from Javert’s shoulders.

Valjean’s hands were shaking almost as much as Javert’s would have as he unbuttoned the uniform shirt Javert had been wearing underneath his greatcoat; as Valjean had thought, it was soaked-through and when Valjean was finally able to pull it from Javert’s arms, the skin underneath was worryingly cold.

He wrapped the towel around Javert’s shoulders, doing his best to dry him off while his pulse still raced in his throat. Eventually, Javert grabbed the edges of the towel from him and held them front of his chest, keeping the towel there.

“Your trousers,” Valjean reminded him slowly, and he could have sworn he saw Javert’s eyes widen in something like -- apprehension, or perhaps embarrassment. It was a strange expression to see on his face.

“I can finish myself,” Javert mumbled, and they were the first words he had spoken since they had arrived. Valjean nodded, then gestured to the clothes he had tossed onto his bed for Javert.

“I hope those fit well enough,” Valjean told him, before hurrying from the room. “I’ll start us a fire downstairs and make us some tea.”

Valjean thought he heard a muttered, “thank you, Monsieur le Maire,” but couldn’t have been sure.

When he left the room, he took a moment to press his back against the wall and draw a few deep breaths. He was worried for Javert, certainly, or at least he knew he should be; but Valjean was anxious to have him leave his home, lest he find something incriminating. He knew Javert to be suspicious of him already; certainly it would not be unreasonable to think Javert might not be as out of sorts as he seemed and was, instead, using it as a ruse to see if he could find out more about M. Madeleine. With a pang, he remembered the candlesticks he still had displayed in his bedchamber; he could not go back for them now, could not attempt to hide them. He prayed they went unnoticed.

And yet, there had been something in Javert’s face as Valjean had divested him of his uniform shirt. Sure, he had shown deference to the mayor before, as Valjean expected he had to all authority, but at least with Madeleine it had seemed an almost grudging sort of respect. This was different, however; he seemed almost shy.

Valjean shook his head as if it might rid his mind of the thought. Javert was not himself; Valjean should have been focusing on making sure he warmed up, not standing dumbly outside his own bedroom attempting to decode facial expressions.

He had calmed, though only slightly. He was thankful that his breathing, at least, had returned to normal; certainly it would do him no good to appear so on-edge around Javert, whom might interpret his discomfort as an indication that he had something to hide.

He moved slowly down the stairs, for the first time realizing that he himself was also soaked through. He would deal with that later. Instead, he started a fire in the hearth and collected as many blankets as he could find, setting them on one of the armchairs before the fire. When Javert finally descended the steps, Valjean was putting on a kettle.

He turned toward Javert, and he might have laughed had he not already been so worked up; the man looked positively ridiculous in Madeleine’s clothing. The trousers were too wide and too short, and Javert’s hand was clutched to his side around what Valjean assumed to be a fistful of the trousers, simply to keep them up. He could see patches of dark hair where the pants ended, a few inches above Javert’s ankles. Noticing he had been staring, he jerked his eyes away. The shirt, at least, seemed to fit him; the sleeves were too short, but it was not as noticeable as it had been with the trousers.

Valjean stood and walked over to Javert. “Are you any warmer?” he asked with an air of concern.

Javert inclined his head. “Thank you, Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean agreed that he did look better, healthier, though still quite cold. He grabbed a blanket off the top of the pile and wrapped it around Javert’s shoulders as he had done with the towel earlier, and then guided him to the armchair.

“This is not necessary, monsieur,” Javert tried.

“I insist.”

Javert nodded and pulled the blanket more closely around himself. Again, it struck Valjean as a strangely human gesture for a man such as Javert to display.

He excused himself to find his own set of dry clothes.

When he entered his bedchamber, he saw that Javert’s wet clothing had been unceremoniously left on the floor. He found it hard to be annoyed with him, for Valjean was sure he would be no better in such a state, and picked them up carefully, draping them over the back of a chair before finding dry clothing for himself.

He felt more comfortable once he had changed; certainly the cold wasn’t helping Valjean either. He stayed a moment later to take a few calming breaths before returning downstairs.

Javert looked at him as he returned, and perhaps it was simply the glow of the fire, but his face seemed to have regained at least some of its colour. Valjean tried to offer a weak smile, but failed, and decided instead to busy himself with preparing their tea.

After handing Javert his own teacup, Valjean sat down on the couch before the fire. He drank deeply and quickly, finding himself completely unable to relax with Javert still in his home and quickly regaining his wits. They did not speak as they drank their tea slowly, and it only added to the knot still twisting itself in Valjean’s stomach..

It was Javert who broke the silence.

“Though I appreciate Monsieur le Maire’s hospitality, none of this was necessary.”

Valjean looked at him, and then summoned a pained smile, forcing some calmness into his voice. “Nonsense,” he told him, “it is really no trouble.”

Javert gave a short nod, and Valjean noticed that he was still visibly shivering; Valjean himself was still cold despite the fire and dry clothes, and he imagined Javert was feeling even worse.

“Has the tea helped any?” He inquired.

Javert gave him a look, and then turned down to look at his tea. “I am fine, Monsieur needn’t concern himself with me. It is getting late, and I should be taking my leave.”

Valjean glanced out the window of the room; the rain was coming down, if anything, even harder. He shook his head at Javert. “Absolutely not,” he admonished, “you would do no good to get even worse by going out there again. You shall spend the night here.”

Javert opened his mouth as if he meant to protest, but thought better of it. A flush rose on his cheeks. “I wish you would not coddle me so,” he mumbled.

“You are ill,” Valjean insisted, “and you may have my bed, tonight. You are still shivering and your face is still pale; the bed will be warmest.”

The flush on Javert’s face grew more pronounced at the suggestion. “Absolutely not. That is your -- I could not,” he stammered.

“I insist,” Valjean repeated, hoping he sounded confident and forceful despite his own anxiety. He had no desire to keep Javert in his home overnight, but he couldn’t turn him out in this condition.

“I will sleep out here, then.”

Valjean shook his head. “The bedroom will be warmer; this room can be drafty.”

Javert shut his eyes as the flush left his face; Valjean had never seen him look so weak or defeated. It was still strange to see a man like Javert bending to his will, treating him with the same deference he gave to anyone else in a position of authority over him. He had no doubt that he preferred Javert like this as opposed to the uncaring guard he had been in Toulon. He realized the idea of Javert sleeping in his bed did not disquiet him as much as it should -- Javert was another man, a man who had known Jean Valjean, who might remember him.

He pushed the thought from his head and nodded at Javert. “You should sleep.”

Javert rose, and he was more steady on his feet this time. Valjean walked carefully behind him as they ascended the stairs, but he did not need Valjean’s assistance, this time. He almost wished he had; it was indescribably strange to touch Javert’s arm in such a way, to be caring and gentle, but firm, as Javert was forced to allow him and -- perhaps more importantly -- trusted him.

They entered Valjean’s bedroom and Valjean immediately went to adding wood to the stove while Javert sat awkwardly on the edge of Valjean’s bed, still wrapped in the blankets.

“Would you like a nightshirt?” Valjean asked, looking over his shoulder at Javert.

“Oh -- no, that would not -- I think I should like to sleep in these clothes,” Javert managed.

“Very well.”

Valjean looked over at him, and saw the color returning to Javert’s face, and another emotion he had not expected to see -- embarrassment. Javert was obviously uncomfortable, and while Valjean felt a pang of guilt, he knew that it was Javert’s best chance to finish warming up. He also knew that he might never again be able to see him so vulnerable, and Valjean was hesitant to give that up so quickly.

“I will be asleep downstairs if you need anything,” Valjean told him, knowing full well Javert would certainly leave him alone through the night. He grabbed a spare blanket and pillow before quitting the room.

When Valjean returned to the living room, he set the pillow down on the couch, laying upon it as he covered himself with the blanket. He, too, had elected not to change. Though it was unlikely Javert would wake him during the night, it was not impossible, and a nightshirt would expose too much of his skin -- it might allow for Javert to see the scars around his wrists or at the top of his back. He exhaled, trying to calm the worry in his stomach, and closed his eyes.

  
  


Valjean awoke after only a few hours of light sleep; the rain had stopped outside, but the sky was still dark. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, sore from the restricted movement, before sitting up to finish stretching the kinks from his muscles.

He let his elbows meet his knees and rested his head in his hands; he was tired and yet felt far from sleep.

Javert was still in his home, in his bed. The same Javert who had watched over him in Toulon, who he still felt watching over him now. And yet -- it was almost not that Javert at all; it was Javert with a human face, perhaps a human heart.

He decided to check on Javert; it must have been several hours, and Valjean wanted to ensure Javert was sleeping alright, and that he had not gotten worse in the time since. He struck a candle before padding quietly up the steps and down the hall, slowly pushing open the door to his own bedchamber.

The light from the candle illuminated only part of the room, but it was enough to see Javert -- sprawled across Valjean’s bed on his stomach, his hair messy from the pillow and mouth hanging slightly open. It was almost humorous to see the normally so upright inspector in such a state. He did, at least from a distance, look better.

Valjean stepped carefully into the room, approaching the bed. He felt an odd desire to smooth out the mess that had been made of Javert’s hair, then pushed the thought from his mind.

When he was close enough, he set the candle carefully down on the nightstand before pressing the back of his hand to Javert’s forehead, feeling for warmth.

It did indeed feel warmer, and Javert shifted under the touch. Valjean pulled his hand back as though he had been burned, taking a step back from the bed just as Javert opened his eyes, looking up at Valjean.

Valjean’s eyes widened, not unlike a child who had been caught stealing. He perhaps did not need to feel so guilty for only checking to see if Javert was continuing to improve, but the gesture was more than that; it was strangely intimate, with Javert in Valjean’s bed and Valjean’s hand on Javert’s forehead, the scene lit only by a small candle. He tried to apologize; his mouth could not form the words.

Instead, Javert reached out one of his hands and grabbed Valjean’s.

Valjean’s heart jumped in his throat and he felt panic course instantly through his body, before realizing Javert had not grabbed his wrist, nor was his grip tight; he held gently onto Valjean’s hand, and began pulling it closer.

“You are cold,” Javert accused quietly.

He continued to pull at Valjean’s hand as he shifted over in the bed, leaving a space for Valjean. Valjean felt himself being pulled, found himself unable to protest as Javert dragged him to his own bed.

Valjean complied, sitting carefully against the headboard of his bed. Javert looked at him, but the look was hazy, and Valjean wondered how awake Javert really was.

“I have been ungrateful,” Javert mumbled, still holding onto Valjean’s hand, “Monsieur le Maire has been kind, and I -- I have been ungrateful.”

The words were distant and distracted but Valjean hardly heard them anyway; he was not looking at Javert, but into the darkness on the opposite wall, trying not to think about Javert or the warmth of the bed or the heat of his hand or the sound of his voice --

But he could not help himself, could not deny himself, not now -- he was too cold, too weak, too tired -- he let himself slide forward on the bed, lying next to Javert, not hesitating as Javert pulled him closer.

Javert tossed the blanket back over both of them and wrapped an arm around Valjean’s chest. He pulled him close, until Valjean was forced to roll over onto his side, his back pressed to Javert’s chest. Nothing but the thin fabric of their shirts -- Valjean’s shirts -- separated them, but Valjean knew that if their skin had been touching, it might have burned him -- even the heat of Javert like this was too much, and Valjean felt his face flush.

But as the shock wore down, he found himself sinking into the bed and into Javert’s grasp; Javert was warmth when Valjean, too, had been wet and cold for hours -- was comfort as opposed to the hard, too-small couch. He tried to summon a level of discomfort, tried to remind himself of exactly who was behind him, breathing softly in his ear, but failed.

He thought he felt Javert press a kiss to the back of his head, but it was so light he could not be certain.

More easily than he would have liked, Valjean fell asleep.

  
  


Valjean was the first to wake the next morning and jumped when he felt something heavy and restricting across his chest; his eyes shot open, and he turned to see Javert laying next to him, still quite asleep, his arm strewn lazily over Valjean.

The night came back to him in pieces, and he remembered Javert soaking wet and shaking and ill, Javert in his bed, Javert pulling him into his bed --

He shifted, trying to get up from under Javert, but the movement startled Javert as he slowly opened his eyes, blinking the sleep from them.

Javert looked at him oddly, almost appraisingly; Valjean’s heart was back in his throat and he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Perhaps Javert had noticed the scars on Valjean’s back after being so close to them, or the ones around his wrist -- perhaps everything that had not been clear in the light of day was more readily seen in the dark of night, without his mayor’s chain and desk to hide behind.

As Valjean lay in bed, trying desperately to come up with some kind of plan should Javert make any insinuation that he might have deduced Valjean’s true identity, Javert sat up, slowly. He still had that puzzled look on his face, and Valjean turned away, scared of what he might find written on Javert’s face.

But then Javert leaned over him, eyes tightly shut as if bracing himself, and placed a light kiss on Valjean’s closed mouth.

Valjean froze, as he had done when Javert grabbed his hand the night before. He was filled with the overwhelming urge to kiss back, to wrap his hand around Javert’s neck and draw his face close, to spend the rest of the morning here with Javert -- this man who was at once man and beast, who terrified him and yet seemed to understand him -- they both desired solitude, both led quiet lives without family --

But he was still Javert; he was still the one link to his past that he could not sever, despite how much he wanted to. Surely if -- no, when -- when Javert discovered his true identity, he would not forgive Valjean simply because of -- whatever this was. Whatever this could be. He would put Valjean back in Toulon, there would be no mercy from him, despite everything. And surely Javert would not have -- would not have kissed him, held him, had he known who he truly was. It was a lie he wished to confess yet knew he could not.

“Monsieur le Maire?”

The address jolted Valjean from his thoughts, and he looked at Javert for a moment before slowly rising from the bed.

“You were cold and ill, and that -- it warmed you,” Valjean said, his eyes shut tight as he struggled for control in his voice, “that is all. Forgive me if you misinterpreted my actions.”

The lie felt like it had been beat from him, pulled painfully from his gut and it left a bad taste in his mouth. He did not want to tell Javert to leave, but it was too late now. As much as he would like to stay here with him, it was not fair to Javert to lay with a convict under the guise of mayor, and there was always the pressing concern that perhaps Javert was only doing it to get close to Madeleine and discover his true identity. He could not let this continue -- as much for Javert's sake as his own -- but he could not tell Javert the truth as to why. It hurt to be dishonest with him, but what choice did he have? If Valjean allowed himself this indulgence, Javert would only hate him more, in time. 

Javert looked at him with a vulnerability Valjean still did not think him capable of, before rising from the bed himself. “I understand, Monsieur le Maire,” he mumbled at the floor.

He left not long after, still in Madeleine’s clothing -- so undersized for him it was almost comical, but it was still early and the streets would be empty -- and his own, still-soaked uniform over an arm. He bowed gracefully before leaving, but did not make eye contact with Valjean.

Valjean let out a deep sigh after Javert left, expecting to feel like a weight had been lifted, but instead just feeling empty.

  
  


Valjean felt guilty, and the guilt only grew when Javert confessed to Madeleine, months later, that he had denounced him to the prefect. Javert had again embarrassed himself before the mayor, before Valjean, and oh, how guilty Valjean felt! It was not Javert's fault, not his fault Valjean had spent 19 years in prison, not his fault he ended up in the same town as Valjean, not his fault he -- did what he did -- with someone who could not be honest with him. But to assauge his conscious through honesty would be to consign himself to a lifetime back at Toulon; Valjean did not wish Javert harm, but, all the same, could not hope things worked out well for him. He wished he could apologize, could tell Javert he need not debase himself like this in front of Madeleine, tell him that he had been selfish but that he never sought to hurt him.

He knew Javert would only have resented him more had he not stopped himself that morning, but the thought was of little comfort.

No, there was never any hope for anything but hate between them.


End file.
